Read Online The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen - Free Book Online
Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen
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considered.
Where do I sit?
Am I supposed to get out of the wheelchair and hop over to my regular seat?
Should I stay in the wheelchair at the back of the classroom?
How am I supposed to take notes?
Ms. Aloi comes to my rescue. “Oh, Jessica!” she says, moving toward the back of the classroom. “It’s so good to see you! No one seemed to know when you’d be returning.…” She drags an empty desk alongside my wheelchair and says, “I’ll get them to deliver a table for you, but for today, will this work?”
“Sure,” I tell her, and try to smile like everything’s just dandy.
“Uh, Ms. Aloi?” Fiona says, signaling me to get out my English assignments sheet. “Here’s a list of the homework Jessica’s missed. She hasn’t been able to do it—I’m sure you can understand that. And now she’s overwhelmed by everything she has to catch up on, so we’re wondering which of these you’ll excuse her from.”
Ms. Aloi looks directly at Fiona.
Fiona holds her gaze. “She has six classes, Ms. Aloi.” She shakes the list a little and says, “They’re all like this.” Then she gives Ms. Aloi a pleading look. “There must be
some
leeway?”
Ms. Aloi takes the list and smiles at me. “We’ll work something out.” The tardy bell has rung, so she heads to the front of the class calling, “Good morning, everybody! Let’s welcome Jessica back!”
Everyone claps and whistles, and a couple of people even stand up.
Fiona grins and gives me a wink as she moves to her assigned seat. It’s a wink that means something specific:
You can make it.
You can do this.
One down, five to go.
E VERYWHERE I GO , I feel like the elephant in the room. A lot of people do say hi and welcome me back, but a lot more don’t.
Fiona notices it, too, whispering, “Maturity check!” in my ear when people pretend that I’m not there.
I feel myself shutting down.
Withdrawing.
She gives me the same advice Kaylee did. “Smile,” she whispers. “Be open. If you’re friendly, they’ll be friendly.”
This is not easy for me. And it seems backward. But I don’t want to be treated like I’m invisible, so I try.
I also try to speak for myself and ask my teachers to excuse me from some of the homework. They’re all very nice about it, but what’s left is still overwhelming. Especially since I’m also diving into the middle of new lessons and new homework assignments.
After science class is over, Mr. Vedder returns my assignment list, and I’m surprised to see that instead of having me do a big project, he’s allowing me to submit a five-hundred-word essay, and he’s whittled my worksheets down to three.
“I wish I could excuse you from all of it,” he says as I’m checking it over. “What’s left is the bare minimum for the curriculum.”
I’m so relieved to be excused from the project that I gush, “No, this is great! You have no idea how much this helps, Mr. Vedder!”
He gives me a kind smile. “I’m just glad you’re back, Jessica. Anything you need, you just ask, okay?”
I nod and thank him and tell him to have a nice weekend, but as Fiona starts pushing me toward the door, he asks, “How are your parents doing with all this?”
The question’s quiet. Like he’s not really sure he should be asking but can’t seem to help himself.
It’s also the first truly personal question I’ve been asked all day, and an odd one because Mr. Vedder doesn’t even know my parents.
My skin prickles.
Why is he asking me this?
What business is it of his?
But then my mind flashes to the pictures of his daughter, Hannah, on his desk; to his stories about Hannah catching lizards in their driveway; pranking him on April Fools’; crashing her bike and breaking her arm.
Suddenly I get it.
He doesn’t know my parents, but he
is
a parent.
So I tell him the truth.
“It’s hard,” I say softly. “Ups and downs, just like me.”
He nods, then takes a deep breath and lets it out as he says, “I
Where do I sit?
Am I supposed to get out of the wheelchair and hop over to my regular seat?
Should I stay in the wheelchair at the back of the classroom?
How am I supposed to take notes?
Ms. Aloi comes to my rescue. “Oh, Jessica!” she says, moving toward the back of the classroom. “It’s so good to see you! No one seemed to know when you’d be returning.…” She drags an empty desk alongside my wheelchair and says, “I’ll get them to deliver a table for you, but for today, will this work?”
“Sure,” I tell her, and try to smile like everything’s just dandy.
“Uh, Ms. Aloi?” Fiona says, signaling me to get out my English assignments sheet. “Here’s a list of the homework Jessica’s missed. She hasn’t been able to do it—I’m sure you can understand that. And now she’s overwhelmed by everything she has to catch up on, so we’re wondering which of these you’ll excuse her from.”
Ms. Aloi looks directly at Fiona.
Fiona holds her gaze. “She has six classes, Ms. Aloi.” She shakes the list a little and says, “They’re all like this.” Then she gives Ms. Aloi a pleading look. “There must be
some
leeway?”
Ms. Aloi takes the list and smiles at me. “We’ll work something out.” The tardy bell has rung, so she heads to the front of the class calling, “Good morning, everybody! Let’s welcome Jessica back!”
Everyone claps and whistles, and a couple of people even stand up.
Fiona grins and gives me a wink as she moves to her assigned seat. It’s a wink that means something specific:
You can make it.
You can do this.
One down, five to go.
E VERYWHERE I GO , I feel like the elephant in the room. A lot of people do say hi and welcome me back, but a lot more don’t.
Fiona notices it, too, whispering, “Maturity check!” in my ear when people pretend that I’m not there.
I feel myself shutting down.
Withdrawing.
She gives me the same advice Kaylee did. “Smile,” she whispers. “Be open. If you’re friendly, they’ll be friendly.”
This is not easy for me. And it seems backward. But I don’t want to be treated like I’m invisible, so I try.
I also try to speak for myself and ask my teachers to excuse me from some of the homework. They’re all very nice about it, but what’s left is still overwhelming. Especially since I’m also diving into the middle of new lessons and new homework assignments.
After science class is over, Mr. Vedder returns my assignment list, and I’m surprised to see that instead of having me do a big project, he’s allowing me to submit a five-hundred-word essay, and he’s whittled my worksheets down to three.
“I wish I could excuse you from all of it,” he says as I’m checking it over. “What’s left is the bare minimum for the curriculum.”
I’m so relieved to be excused from the project that I gush, “No, this is great! You have no idea how much this helps, Mr. Vedder!”
He gives me a kind smile. “I’m just glad you’re back, Jessica. Anything you need, you just ask, okay?”
I nod and thank him and tell him to have a nice weekend, but as Fiona starts pushing me toward the door, he asks, “How are your parents doing with all this?”
The question’s quiet. Like he’s not really sure he should be asking but can’t seem to help himself.
It’s also the first truly personal question I’ve been asked all day, and an odd one because Mr. Vedder doesn’t even know my parents.
My skin prickles.
Why is he asking me this?
What business is it of his?
But then my mind flashes to the pictures of his daughter, Hannah, on his desk; to his stories about Hannah catching lizards in their driveway; pranking him on April Fools’; crashing her bike and breaking her arm.
Suddenly I get it.
He doesn’t know my parents, but he
is
a parent.
So I tell him the truth.
“It’s hard,” I say softly. “Ups and downs, just like me.”
He nods, then takes a deep breath and lets it out as he says, “I
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